Squared Away
by happycabbage75
Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.
1. Chapter 1

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong… Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

Disclaimer: Don't own a thing. Bless their hearts over at _Supernatural_. They own it all and more power to 'em.

Chapter One

* * *

The pain was unbelievable, almost unbearable. Dean could feel his muscles drawing up to fight against it, but his other injuries caused him to hiss in pain. His collarbone was cracked and the sudden jolt of agony only added to the cacophony as the pain pounded through his head.

"Dean?" Sam asked worriedly.

Dean didn't answer, trying to force his mind away from the source of the torture. It spread through his brain like an infection, burrowing in, scraping every nerve ending raw until he wanted to scream, cover his ears and beg for mercy, beg for it to stop.

"Sam, please," Dean said through clenched teeth.

"Quiet," his brother whispered urgently.

It continued on, droning, clawing into his brain, a never-ending agony. It had to stop. He had to make it stop. Hours. It seemed like hours now. His damaged collarbone sent another wave of agony through his body and he almost welcomed the distraction.

"Dean," Sam hissed, and this time Dean could clearly hear the anger in his voice. "Sit still."

"Is it almost over?"

"What are you, twelve?" Sam whispered.

Dean clenched his teeth and shifted in the rock hard seat. Sam's fault. This was all Sam's fault. Worse still, he was dying and Sam couldn't care less.

"You're not dying," Sam said, seeming to read his mind. "Stop. Fidgeting."

Dean opened his mouth to object, but closed it at another glare from his brother. He honestly didn't know how much more of this he could take.

"Dean, it's Beethoven, not Chinese water torture," Sam ground out.

Dean wasn't so sure. He'd cracked his collarbone while disposing of a ghost for a snooty suburban couple, bruised some ribs. Sam, horror of horrors, had mussed his hair. Trying to repay them, they'd given Sam a reward. Dean thought it was closer to a punishment. Two tickets to 'Symphony on the Square.' Dean had been sitting here for over an hour, feeling more bored and out of place than a zombie at a Tupperware party.

It was a beautiful summer evening. Just perfect for a cross-country drive, the window down, the breeze in his hair. Instead he was stuck here with a herd of old farts, among them his brother who he had a suspicion was born eighty years old, listening to the most boring music known to man. Not that Sam actually liked the music much either, but he seemed to be more appreciative of it, or at least more patient with it. Go figure.

To his dying day, Dean knew he would associate classical music with dancing hippos. When they were children, their dad had dumped them for a few days with a lady whose face he couldn't even bring to mind. In a desperate and misguided effort to keep them amused she'd taken them to the movies to see _Fantasia_. He couldn't remember much, but that freaking hippo was permanently imprinted on his brain.

Dean looked up at the makeshift stage in the center of the downtown square hearing an ugly sound. It was a bow being randomly drawn across a violin. The first violinist in the front row was struggling to breath, fighting something almost, his muscles contracting around the bow and instrument causing the ugly scratching noises coming from the violin.

Dean sprang to his feet. Almost automatically, Sam stood beside him. The man dropped the violin and began clawing at his throat. So fast Dean wasn't even sure he'd seen it, he caught the barest flicker of something standing behind the still struggling musician, almost like catching a glimpse out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look it was gone.

Sam and Dean started forward as the man fell to the floor of the stage, weaving through the dumbstruck members of the crowd who were standing and watching as disaster unfolded in front of them.

The violinist was turning blue, still clawing at his throat almost as if he were trying to pry someone's fingers away. Dean flinched involuntarily as, with a final audible snap, the man's neck broke. Just like a switch had been thrown, the man fell limp, his hands landing back at his sides with a thump.

Sam and Dean pulled themselves up onto the stage and knelt beside him, already knowing it was useless. The guy was dead as a hammer.

Dean stood, sighing, ignoring the pain from his cracked collarbone. He hadn't done himself any favors pulling himself up onto the stage.

He stared down at the body. "Well, at least the concert's over."

* * *

_Just a teaser... Site willing, more tomorrow._


	2. Chapter 2

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

_Thank you so much for the kind reviews. Now on we go…_

Chapter Two

* * *

Dean woke to the sound of the hotel room door opening. He closed his eyes again, however, hearing the usual noise his brother made as he moved into the room. Sam sat down on the opposite bed and Dean caught the always welcome smell of coffee. Accompanying the sound of the mattress springs shifting was the crackle of a newspaper being folded. 

"So you want the good news or the bad news?" Sam asked, turning on the bedside lamp.

"Neither," Dean grunted and pulled the blanket up over his head in response.

"Ok," Sam sighed. "The good news is that the gas station coffee is actually pretty good. The bad news is that you made the front page of the paper."

Dean's eyes popped back open and he threw the covers back, sitting up and snatching the newspaper from Sam in one swift motion.

Sure enough. He was on the front page, in full color. The picture had been taken such that the dead violinist couldn't be seen, only Dean kneeling over him, his expression distant, while a group of horrified musicians stood behind him looking down at their fallen colleague. The caption read, 'An unknown bystander leapt to the stage in an effort to assist, orchestra members said.'

"Stupid photographer," he grumbled, "Didn't even get my good side." Dean looked up to see Sam wearing a vaguely amused expression. "Wipe that smile off your face," Dean scowled. "I wasn't the only bystander leaping to assist."

"But you are the only one who made the paper," Sam replied dryly. "Way to stay low-profile."

Dean's mouth quirked up on one side. "Photographer must have been a woman."

Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sure. You see the headline?"

Dean studied the paper and his eyes widened. "Crap."

"Yeah," Sam said meaningfully. "That was the third violinist to be killed in two weeks." Dean started scanning the article while Sam kept talking. "Apparently the earliest guy to die was the First Violinist."

Dean raised an eyebrow in question.

"The highest ranking violinist," Sam explained. "He's the one who comes out and everyone else tunes to him."

Dean smiled. "Nerd ranking system. Cute." Sam gave him a warning glare and Dean's smile grew to Cheshire Cat proportions. "Must bring back your glory days, huh?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "Dean…"

"You thought I forgot about when you joined the band?" He shook his head. "Dude, I had to sit through that whole concert. Dad was out of town and he ordered me to go."

"I needed the music credit to qualify for the honors program," Sam said defensively.

Dean snorted. "You were in one of your 'I'm pissed at Dad, so I'm going to do something time-consuming and non-violent just to annoy him' modes. You just picked band that year."

"I did not!"

"Sam, the year before that you picked… what was it?"

Sam muttered something unintelligible.

"What was that?" Dean said all mock-innocence, gesturing for Sam to speak up.

"Sunshine Society," Sam said loudly, through clenched teeth.

"Right," Dean smiled. "That was it. Made cards and cookies. Sam. My very own little ray of sunshine."

"Heather Parker was in that club, I…" Sam shook his head, annoyed at being drawn in yet again. "Can you stay on topic just once?" he almost begged.

"Fine… Band. Did you have to pick the flute?" Dean grimaced.

Sam glared at him. "It was half-way through the school year when we moved. It was all they had left."

"That's your cover story, huh?" Dean raised a disapproving eyebrow.

"Hey, I got to meet with five girls every day to practice," Sam said, a knowing expression spreading across his face. "Nice thing about flute players. The girls are… dexterous."

Dean couldn't help it. He had to laugh. The very idea of Sam's shy, awkward high school alter-ego leering at girls was too funny. They'd probably organized a bake sale. "So the violinist?"

"Right," Sam cleared his throat. "Signs of asphyxiation, neck was snapped. His apartment appeared to have been broken into, but there was nothing taken. As for the other two, the second guy died inside his own locked apartment. Nothing was disturbed. We saw what happened to the third guy last night."

"So someone _real_ killed the first guy," Dean observed, "but it was a ghost that killed the guy last night."

Sam nodded. "Probably the second one too if his apartment was locked. Thing is, the other two… when the guy before them died they made First Violin."

"Seriously?" Dean asked. "So the First Violinist who was murdered doesn't like anyone in his chair?"

"Something like that," Sam shrugged. "We need to talk to the other violinists or we'll have another dead one on our hands as soon as the promotion or whatever it's called has been handed out."

"How do we do that?"

Sam pointed to the newspaper Dean was still holding. "Dead guy number two is being buried today. We should go."

Dean sighed in resignation. "It's not a party until the Winchesters have to visit a cemetery."

* * *

Dean hated suits. He felt constrained. If he had to fight, he wouldn't be able to move properly. And since they were visiting the funeral of a murder victim, he did like to be prepared for those kinds of things. Sam, on the other hand, looked to be right at home in his. Dean was almost jealous. Almost. Sam had the ability to look comfortable whether he was wearing his oldest, crummiest pair of jeans or a tux. Still, the suit seemed to be a chick magnet and Dean couldn't fault that. 

The graveside service was just breaking up. It had been fairly typical. Taken before his time, he'll be sorely missed, kind to animals and small children, blah, blah, blah.

Luckily for them, the remaining violinists had been asked to play at the close of the service, allowing Sam and Dean to distinguish them from the rest of the funeral-goers. Sam and Dean followed as the three violinists walked together toward the cars.

"Pardon me," Dean said, stepping into their path. "I know this isn't the best time, but my partner and I need to ask you a few questions."

The three musicians stopped and stood in a line opposite them. There were two men, one in his mid-thirties, the other mid-fifties. The third person was a short, frumpy looking woman who could have been anywhere from 25 to 40. She stood open-mouthed staring up at Sam like he was Zeus come down from Olympus, or maybe Adonis.

"Ma'am?" Dean said, looking from his brother to the woman. Must be nerd pheromones. Sammy had come to the right place. Dean waved his hand in front of her face and she blinked as if coming out of a daze and finally looked at him.

"You two," she said. "You're the ones who jumped onto the stage last night."

"We're private investigators. We've been hired by a family member to look into the recent deaths. They're not happy with how little progress the police are making," Dean explained, doing his best to look professional.

The woman looked like she was going to faint. Apparently nerd pheromones plus a hint of danger really worked well for her. Sam, Dean noticed, was shifting uneasily from foot to foot under the woman's awestruck scrutiny.

"Whose family?" the younger man asked suspiciously. His body language was downright hostile.

"I'm afraid we're not at liberty to tell you that," Dean said. Especially since he couldn't remember any of the dead guys' names.

"Look, we've all already talked to the police," the same man said belligerently. "We haven't seen anyone odd hanging around, no one has made any threats against us, nothing. Now if you'll excuse us…" He moved to walk around them.

Dean sidestepped into the man's path again. "Is this all of you?"

The man stopped, but refused to say anything. Dean looked to the other two violinists and for just a second, he saw a look of worry pass across the older man's face. "No," he said. "Marcus should have been here today."

The younger man snorted derisively. "He's probably out celebrating."

"Now, Peter, you shouldn't talk like that," Ms. Frump scolded.

"Why would he be celebrating?" Sam asked.

"Because he's going to be the big man on campus now," Peter frowned.

"You don't think he deserves it?" Dean inquired, keeping his voice as non-committal as possible.

Peter's eyes narrowed fractionally. "That's up to the Conductor." His tone said how little he cared for his boss' judgment. The woman and older man looked away in embarrassment, but didn't seem surprised by their colleague's attitude.

"Ok," Sam said, "But Marcus should have been here?"

"Yes, he should have," the older man answered. "He can be flighty, but Marcus would not have missed this."

"Maybe we should go and check on him then," Dean suggested. "Any of you have an address?"

"I could show you," Ms. Frump said almost hopefully. "It's…"

"I'll show them," Peter cut her off, ignoring her crestfallen expression. "It's not far from here." He looked at Dean. "You'll have to drive me home. The three of us came together."

"No problem," Dean said. He nodded to the older man who put his arm around the woman's shoulders and gently led her away. Dean gestured for Peter to follow him and then led the way back to the car, Sam walking beside him. Peter followed several steps behind, lagging as he stopped to shake a few hands.

"What do you think?" Dean asked quietly.

"I think I don't like this guy," Sam replied, also keeping his voice down. "He's just coming to keep an eye on us."

"Still need to find out about this Marcus guy," Dean said and his brother only nodded.

Dean got into the driver's seat and started the car. Without having to be asked, Sam got in the back seat. Peter would ride in the passenger seat.

Dean hated having a murderer in the car. It made him angry. It went against everything he represented and thus that his car represented. He fought evil. He didn't drive it around.

But there was no doubt in his mind. Peter was a murderer. It was as old a story as they came. Cain and Abel. Salieri and Mozart. O.J and… whatever that dude's name was. Killing someone out of jealousy. They have what you want, or they're getting the glory and you're in the shadows. Kill them in a rage or kill them in cold blood, it was all the same. You were still a murderer and they were still dead.

Peter had killed the First Violinist, because when it came down to it… no one liked to play second fiddle.

Sam knew too. That was why he was in the back seat. If Pete gave them any trouble, he was surrounded.

Dean hated having a murderer in his car.

* * *

_I know, I know… the whole Salieri-Mozart thing is fictional. Still fit the bill. More tomorrow…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

_Thanks so much for the kind reviews. Hope this works for you._

Chapter Three

* * *

Sam studied Dean as they pulled up in front of the small cottage style home and he shut the car off. He had been quiet all the way there and Sam could practically see the tension in his shoulders. Dean didn't deal well with the bad guys at the best of times. He mostly taunted them and then shot them. Not necessarily in that order. He certainly didn't like having to make chit chat and chauffer them around. 

Peter got out of the car first and headed up the walk toward the house. They quickly followed. Dean was armed, Sam noted, seeing the way his brother was walking. Dean had a slightly different gait when he had a gun at his back. He could also tell that Dean's shoulder was still bothering him, but thankfully it was his left. His collarbone wouldn't really interfere if he needed to shoot.

Peter knocked on the door loudly, but there was no answer. "Marcus? It's Peter!" he said, banging loudly again.

"I'm gonna take a look around the side," Dean said. "Pete, you come with me. Sam, go around the other way."

Sam nodded and walked in the opposite direction Dean had taken, trying not to take it personally that his brother had kept Peter with him. After all, Dean had the gun. Sam hurried from window to window, finally turning the corner into the back yard. Dean was already there, Peter shadowing him as he looked in a set of windows. Sam saw his brother stop cold and push Peter back.

"You see him?" Sam asked.

"He's on the floor," Dean answered. "And either he's dead or he's doing a _really_ thorough inspection of the carpet."

Dean turned and started back toward the front of the house, pushing Peter in front of him.

"What are we going to do?" Peter asked, which just confirmed Sam's suspicions. Normal people who hadn't killed someone would be freaking out and calling 911.

Dean looked up at Sam. "Dude, we've got to get back to the cemetery. This thing's not waiting for the actual promotion anymore. It's pissed and just taking out the whole bunch of them in order."

"It's speeding up too," Sam observed. "It killed the guy last night at the concert and this one too. The others were several days apart."

"What are you two talking about?" Peter asked angrily. "What are we going to do about Marcus? Should we just leave? Call something in anonymously?"

"You got a phone?" Sam asked. He didn't want to use his own for what he had in mind.

"Sure," Peter said, pulling a cell phone from his pocket.

"What's your last name, Pete?"

"Shostakovich."

Sam raised his eyebrows in disbelief and Dean actually snorted. The guy's name was probably Jones, but that just wasn't pretentious enough for him. Sam shook his head, dialed 911 and waited for the voice on the other end to ask for his emergency. "Yes, I'm at 415 Poplar. My name is Peter Shostakovich. I'm a member of the local symphony orchestra." Sam could actually hear the 911 operator pausing, waiting for the worst. No doubt everyone knew what had been happening with the violinists. Sam put the requisite amount of worry, concern and borderline hysteria into his tone. "One of our violinists didn't come to the funeral today." He knew better than to look at Dean while he was trying to emote. Dean would be smirking and Sam wouldn't be able to keep up the act. "I'm here at his house and… and I think he's dead… I can see him through one of the back windows on the floor."

"Dude," he heard Dean whisper, "You should've gone to Hollywood."

Sam waved his brother away, trying to listen to the woman's questions, inadvertently smacking Dean's bad shoulder. "No, I haven't gone inside."

Dean hissed loudly and smacked him on the back of the head. "Ass."

Sam ignored him. "Yes, I'll wait outside for the police to arrive. Thank you." Sam closed the phone and handed it back to Peter. "Now you're staying here and we're going to take care of this."

"Why do I have to stay here?" Peter said. "And what do you mean take care of it?"

"Pete, who's next?" Dean demanded.

"What? How should I know?" Peter asked, wide-eyed.

"Who would be next in line as First Violin?" Dean pressed.

Peter's eyes narrowed angrily. "Knowing the Conductor, he'll probably pick Emily."

"The schoolmarm looking chick from the funeral?" Dean asked.

Peter nodded. "What did you mean, 'take care of it'?"

They both ignored him. Sam looked at his watch and swore. "Too close to sunset. Dean, we're going to have to go to Emily's before we can go to the cemetery."

"Why?"

"It killed the violinist at the concert right after sunset yesterday. We can't take the risk that it won't do the same thing tonight. It'll kill her before we can get him dug up. You know how long it takes."

"Listen, you two morons!" Peter got right in Dean's face and Sam could see his brother working not to knock the guy flat on his back. "I want to know what's going on! My life is at stake here too!"

"Pete," Dean said, his voice deceptively calm. "You're staying here to talk to the police because this thing is all your fault. Now, _back up_."

"How is this _my_ fault?" Peter demanded angrily, raising a finger to poke Dean in the chest.

Before he could, however, Dean lashed out and sucker punched him. Peter crumbled to the ground clutching his stomach. "Sorry," Dean growled, his voice still perfectly calm. "I have a no touching rule. Maybe I should have warned you about that earlier." He took a step closer to stand over the man. "But to answer your question, this is your fault because you murdered…" Dean looked up at Sam frowning, "What was his name?"

"Andre," Sam provided.

"Andre," Dean repeated looking back down at Peter.

"I didn't kill anyone," Peter said angrily, moving to sit up.

Dean laid a foot, heavily, on Peter's shoulder and shoved him back to the ground. "Well, Sam and I figured it out about 5 seconds after we met you. I'm guessing the cops know it too, cause your poker face sucks and you can't quite manage to keep your mouth shut about how much you hate your co-workers. My guess is they're just waiting to get all their ducks in a row to arrest you good and proper. In the meantime, though, Andre's a little miffed and he's bumping off the rest of you. Why all of the violin section and not just you, I'm not sure. But don't worry," Dean gave him a grin that Sam could only describe as evil. "You're time will come."

"You're crazy!" Peter shouted.

"Whatever." Dean looked back up at Sam. "Fine. Emily first, then we'll go find Andre."

"What about the other one, the older guy?" Sam asked.

"Pete," Dean turned back. "We need addresses. Emily and the older dude."

Peter didn't answer. Sam saw a muscle in Dean's jaw flex. He was probably still pissed the guy had been in his car. Not a bright idea to cross him right now. Dean took a menacing step closer to the man still on the ground.

"It's her father," the man spat out. "They live together over on Martin Lane. It's a big yellow house set back off the road."

"You've been very helpful," Dean said, moving toward the car. Sam followed. "I hope your prison stay suits you."

* * *

Dean slammed the trunk lid closed and together he and Sam moved up the long walk toward the house. It was just past sunset and the street lights were beginning to come on. 

Dean had removed his tie and coat, throwing them haphazardly into the back seat. Walking a step in front of Sam, the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up, Dean was a picture of relaxed violence.

Relaxed because he was finally out of the suit coat. Sam knew how much he hated that thing. It was part of why he liked making him wear it so often when they played insurance adjusters or whatever else.

Violent because, well… because he was Dean. His brother was a trained weapon and right now all his attention was on the house in front of them. It was also because he still had an automatic tucked at the small of his back and he was carrying a sawed-off shotgun down at his side.

Of course the shotgun might also be why Dean was feeling more relaxed. Dean was always more relaxed when he had Marigold with him. Why Dean had named the shotgun Marigold, Sam would never know. It had been a fluke that he had learned about the name in the first place. He was fairly certain that his brother would have died before intentionally letting him find out about his little quirk.

Of course, if any family was entitled to having a few quirks, it would be the Winchesters.

"Dean, you wanna tell me how we're going to explain showing up at their door armed to the teeth?" Sam asked.

"Actually, I was kind of hoping you would wink at the schoolmarm. She'll faint and then we can play bodyguard without having to explain anything."

"Great, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes. "And what are we supposed to do about the father?"

"Oh," Dean said, pausing as if giving it some thought. "While you're winking at the daughter, I'll bash him over the head with something heavy."

"You're a master of the subtle," Sam said dryly.

"Hey, you want subtle, you're going to have to give me more time than ten minutes in the car and the walk up to the house," Dean said a bit defensively.

"So, I'm assuming it's the usual then…" Sam sighed.

"Uhh… You mean lie shamelessly and hope they buy it long enough for us to save 'em?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, pretty much."

"Wonderful."

Sam raised his hand to knock on the front door. Inside, they both heard something heavy fall over, a piece of furniture, followed by the sound of glass shattering. Sam tried the door, but it was locked.

Dean hastily pushed Sam out of the way and kicked in the front door.

* * *

_Maybe it's just me, but I love watching Dean kick in doors. It's just so… Dean. More tomorrow._


	4. Chapter 4

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

_Thank you all for your ever encouraging reviews. Now where were we? Oh yes, Dean was kicking in the door…_

Chapter Four

* * *

The door broke open and swung drunkenly on its hinges to reveal a wide living room. Dean walked in first, his shotgun at the ready, Sam right behind him. 

Emily was on the far side of the room, her fingers clawing at her neck as if trying to pry someone's hands away much like they'd seen the violinist at the concert do. She'd pulled over a sidetable during the struggle and broken glass from something decorative lay strewn across the wooden floor.

The woman's father was standing in the other doorway to the room completely transfixed, immobile, while his daughter was thrashing wildly, fighting for her life.

Dean fired into the blank space in front of her. As he pulled the trigger, the woman jerked haphazardly, falling into the line of fire and Dean shouted involuntarily though it was useless. The shot was barely ahead of her fall as she lurched still clawing at her neck. There was no effect however on whatever was trying to strangle her.

Dean caught barely a flicker and realized the ghost was standing behind her. "Sam, grab her! Just hold her still or I'll shoot her!" Dean ordered.

Sam obeyed without question, racing forward and wrapping the woman in a bear hug, by sheer brute strength holding the panicked woman still. Dean immediately fired again and knew the shot had hit home when the woman sagged in Sam's arms, sliding toward the floor.

Sam followed her to the ground, kneeling and still holding her. He began to rock the now gasping, sobbing woman.

"Thank you, thank you," she repeated over and over, clinging to him as if her life depended on it.

"Sam, why is it that I save 'em and they're always thanking _you_?" Dean asked. He was breathing hard himself, he realized. Adrenaline… You'd think he'd be used to this sort of thing by now.

Sam raised an eyebrow, still rocking the oblivious woman. "It couldn't possibly be your prickly personality."

"Prickly?" Dean snorted. "Dude, who uses a word like prickly?"

"Exhibit A," Sam said dryly.

Dean shook his head. "It's probably the hair. It's soothing. Reminds them of their mother."

"Exhibit B."

"What… what happened?"

Sam and Dean both looked up at the sound of the shaky voice and realized Emily's father had come out of his catatonia. He was pale and visibly shaking.

"Is she… Emily, are you all right?" he asked. Dean noticed he was blinking rapidly as if coming out of sleep, trying to decide what was real and what wasn't. Dean shook his head. Not exactly a nominee for Honorary Hunter of the Year, but they couldn't all be like his dad. A pity.

Emily was starting to calm, though she still had her arms wrapped tightly around Sam.

"Sammy? Let me know when you two decide on a china pattern."

Sam shot him an irritated look. "Dean..."

"Emily?" the woman's father said again.

The familiar voice seemed to finally get her attention and she loosened her death-grip like hold on Sam. She looked up, realized what she was holding on to and gasped, blushing a furious red. When she gasped, however, she half-choked and sat back, raising her hands to her neck.

"It's ok. Just nice even breathing," Sam urged, keeping his voice low and soothing. "Your throat may be damaged."

Dean smirked when Sam actually picked up the shaky woman and carried her to the sofa, setting her down gently. His brother had probably been a knight in shining armor in a past life. Sam kicked a few bits of glass out of the way and then knelt on the floor in front of her, his height ensuring that he was still roughly face to face with her.

"Can you turn a light on?" Sam asked and the woman's father moved to a switch turning on a bright overhead lamp. Sam put a finger under the woman's chin. "Look up for me?" She was blushing furiously again, but she complied as Sam carefully inspected her throat.

Dean moved closer so that he too could see. There were visible finger imprints. Two very distinct sets of imprints. Two hands grasping the neck from behind and squeezing. If the ghost was repeating his own murder, then the killer had struck from _behind_, crushing the airway and eventually snapping his neck. It explained why the ghost was killing _all_ of the violinists. Andre didn't know who had killed him so he was working his way down the line.

"She ought to see a doctor," Sam said, looking up at Dean. "What do you think?"

Dean frowned. When the ghost got itself together, it would kill her at the ER just as easily as it would kill her here. "I think we need to get these two behind a salt line and then we need to get to the cemetery. As soon as we take care of business, we'll call and she can go to the ER."

Sam thought about it for two seconds and then nodded his agreement. He turned back to Emily who had lowered her chin and was now staring at him with adoring eyes. Sam politely ignored the worshipful expression and stood.

"All right," he said, "I know you two aren't really sure what just happened, but we need you to trust us. Dean and I are going to make some arrangements for the room. You will need to stay here until we call you, all right?"

Emily nodded, grimacing slightly at the movement.

Without having to be asked, Dean stayed with the father and daughter while Sam went to the car for salt. He reloaded Marigold with the extra shells he'd tucked into a pocket. Emily watched his practiced movements, while her still stunned father sat down on the sofa beside her and put an arm around her. Dean noted her eyes weren't nearly so adoring as she looked at him and his shotgun. The ladies never really looked at you the same after you shot something in front of them. Even when it saved their lives. No. They loved the boy with the floppy hair and the gentle expression, who held them after it was all over. Not the _prickly_ one who did the dirty work.

Dean sighed. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.

And if he needed further proof, Sam walked back through the front door and Emily's eyes lit up again. Dean mentally shrugged. He had Marigold. She was more reliable in a crisis anyway.

Sam walked purposefully from window to window pouring arcs of salt around them and then proceeded to the doors while Dean stood sentry duty. Finally, the job finished, he came to stand in front of Emily again.

He fished in his pocket for his cell phone and flipped it open, pushing several buttons, then handed it to the woman. "Can you punch your phone number in for me?" he asked.

The woman smiled and despite the fact that she was the shyest, frumpiest looking woman Dean had seen in years, that smile was the smile of every woman in the world when a man asked for her number.

Blushing at the woman's open adoration, Sam accepted the phone she returned to him. "Thanks. Now, remember. Stay in _this_ room until we call. Don't disturb the salt. We'll call as soon as we can and then you can go to the ER. I think you'll be fine, but you shouldn't take any chances."

The woman nodded her agreement. As if she would do anything other than agree with her savior. Dean coughed, smothering a grin. It was sweet… in a dorky kind of way.

Together, he and Sam stepped through the doorway, mindful of the salt. Sparing an extra minute, they set the front door back in its frame as best they could and then hurried to the car.

"You sure you can keep your mind on the job?" Dean asked.

"What?"

"It's hard when you have to leave your lady home to worry about you," Dean raised an eyebrow.

"Shut up, Dean," Sam said, slapping him on the back of the head.

"What?" Dean said innocently. "I think it's cute. Geek love. It's the wave of the future."

"Dean, she's a nice woman and she's been through a traumatic experience. Try and show some compassion," Sam shook his head.

"I knew someone once who had some," Dean said, as if thinking hard. "Didn't end well."

"Dean…"

"All right, all right…" Dean sighed. "Compassion. Got it."

The drive to the cemetery only took a few minutes. Finding the grave took longer. They had to drive up and down the little lanes looking for fresh graves, occasionally having Sam hop out to check the name on the little temporary plaques that were put up until finally they found the right one.

Their eyes began to adjust to the darkness as they pulled a shovel out of the trunk and headed into the graveyard. Unfortunately, this was going to take even longer than usual. Dean's collarbone and ribs just weren't going to allow him to dig. Sam was going to have to do the heavy lifting tonight while he stood guard.

Just as they passed a large tree, Dean caught movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned and raised his shotgun, but Sam was in front of him blocking him. Dean saw a handgun go flying as Sam knocked it out of someone's hand. A second later, Sam was yanked sideways and slammed up against the wide tree trunk.

Peter stood in front of him, one hand wrapped around Sam's throat, the other wrapped around one of his wrists holding it away from him. With his free hand, Sam frantically tried to pry at the fingers constricting his neck, but didn't seem to be making any headway.

Dean dropped Marigold and drew the automatic he still had tucked into his waistband at his back. Now was not the time for rock salt. He needed bullets.

"Let him go!" Dean barked, steadily aiming the gun at Peter's head. The man didn't even seem to be winded although Sam was twisting and fighting to free himself.

Peter turned slightly and looked at him. "Move and I'll snap his neck like a twig."

* * *

_More tomorrow…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

_Thanks for all the lovely reviews… I know how worried you are about poor Sam and his over-abused neck. It's just so giraffe-like! It draws the bad guys like a moth to a flame. Dean very wisely camouflages his with his collar. It's really not just an Elvis impersonation. Honest._

Chapter Five

* * *

"Mister," Dean said through clenched teeth, "if you hurt my brother, I'll kill you." Might as well keep it short and sweet. He held the gun one handed. He would have preferred using both hands to hold it steady, but his collarbone might cause him problems and he couldn't afford that right now.

Peter swung around, dragging Sam along and using his body as a shield. Peter wasn't tall enough to maintain his grip comfortably so he kicked the back of Sam's leg making his hostage fall to his knees. Peter then stood behind him, almost entirely hidden from Dean's aim.

Peter's left hand was wrapped around Sam's throat, his right hand around Sam's right wrist, twisting the arm back so that it would wrench his shoulder if any more pressure was placed on it. Sam could still breathe, but the pressure was enough that he was having to work at it. He moved again, trying to free himself and Dean saw Peter tighten his grip causing Sam to choke momentarily.

"Don't move," Peter said coldly. Sam held very still and the man loosened his grip very slightly. "Better."

"What do you want, Pete?" Dean asked angrily. He didn't dare look at his brother for more than a second. He couldn't afford to lose his temper. Sam's life depended on it.

"You said you were private investigators. After what you said, I really can't afford to have you two talking to the police," the man said, his expression unconcerned, as if perfectly content to just stand and wait.

"Look, we don't have any proof of anything," Dean snapped. "I said that already."

"So you said," Peter replied calmly, "but can I really trust my life to that? I don't think so."

Dean still held the gun steady on him, but the man didn't seem to care. "You already lost your gun and I still have mine," Dean frowned. "Just where do you think this is going to get you?"

Peter grinned malevolently. "You'll understand soon enough. It isn't how I planned on this working out, but it will have to do. It'll just take a bit longer."

Dean grit his teeth, fighting and failing to keep his temper in check. "You wanna know the only thing I do understand?"

"Yes?" Peter said, as if they were having a perfectly friendly conversation while he was trying to slowly squeeze the life out of Sam.

"You killed a guy because you wanted his spot, but the pathetic thing is that there were like 40 people in front of you before you could be top dog," Dean stated.

Peter's grip tightened making Sam squeak, fighting to breathe. "It is an honor to hold such a position. Andre was a pompous ass, lording it over us as if we were children who knew nothing of the craft. He didn't deserve his place."

"Made you look bad, did he?" Dean asked. Peter's eyes narrowed and his fingers shifted, pressing into Sam's windpipe, but he didn't answer. Sam choked, raising frantic eyes to his, and Dean was immediately sorry, knowing his unchecked anger was causing Sam further pain.

Dean's shoulder was starting to feel the strain of holding the gun steady. His muscles just weren't used to holding one pose for so long. He shrugged his shoulder trying to loosen it.

"Getting tired?" Peter asked.

"I beg your pardon?" Dean asked, frowning.

"Your arm. Without training, the muscles will only stay in one position for so long. Sad but true."

Dean frowned. "Don't you worry about me. Worry about you."

Peter's expression was disdainfully amused, as if indulging a not particularly bright child. "Weakness. A common misconception about us."

"Us?"

"Symphony people. People think that we're soft… Cheese and wine people who couldn't hurt a fly," Peter explained.

Dean remained silent, concentrating on holding the gun steady.

"You think we're quiet, nerdy little people who were bullied in school."

Dean really wouldn't argue much with that, but thought that it was probably not a good idea to say so. He eased his finger away from the trigger slightly. He could still shoot, but his muscles were starting to draw up and he didn't want to accidentally fire because of an involuntary muscle contraction.

"But you see… A real musician… a violinist… we spend hour after hour practicing."

Dean still didn't have a clue what the guy was talking about. Maybe he was just nuts.

"Try holding a violin in one position for _hours_. Trying holding the bow in your tired fingers, your arm sawing back and forth with no respite in sight because the conductor demands it and then after that you go home and keep playing, keep practicing."

Dean saw the man's hand tighten around Sam's throat who began to squirm, desperate to get away. Peter held Sam's arm in its awkward position, though, and he couldn't move without damaging it.

"You see? I could stand here for hours, just like this. And then at the end, I could crush your brother's windpipe, snap his neck without so much as a twinge of effort. A violinist is an athlete, all toned muscle and stamina. And men like _you_," he made the word sound dirty, "you look at me and what's the first word that comes to mind?"

Dean certainly knew better than to answer that question. He was too busy judging the odds of shooting the guy and hoping he wouldn't still be able to stand long enough to snap Sam's neck. And that was if he didn't miss and hit Sam instead. Peter was a more normal sized guy and Sam was a big shield.

"Prissy?"

Dean was pretty sure he'd never used that word in his whole life. Nutty as a monkey turd was the phrase coming to mind at the moment.

"You think yourselves so much more… masculine," Peter's eyes narrowed as Sam's labored breathing continued. "But you're the one struggling here, aren't you?" He looked Dean up and down. "You're shoulder is probably shrieking right now." Peter shook his head sadly, almost as if disappointed. "The muscle is stretched tight, but not moving, not getting the oxygen it needs. The lactic acid builds up. Hurts, doesn't it?"

Dean grit his teeth, but didn't answer. The jerk knew it hurt. He didn't need to answer.

"Well, if nothing else, I hope you two have learned a valuable lesson about underestimating your opponent." He eyed Dean. "Are you about ready to give me that gun now?" he asked almost politely. "I can wait if you're not," Peter smiled cruelly. "No hurry." His grip on Sam's throat became crushing and Sam started whistling, trying to draw air in through his constricted throat, almost like what agonal breathing sounded like, a death rattle. Panicked, he tried to fight his way free, only to have Peter twist his arm back more fiercely. Sam made a horrible sound, trying to cry out and breathe at the same time, but unable to do either. Dean was afraid the man might have dislocated Sam's shoulder.

Fury washing over him, Dean knew he was out of time. He either had to put the gun down and hope the guy didn't just snap Sam's neck anyway or he had to shoot the guy and hope that his screaming muscles held steady enough that he didn't accidentally shoot his own brother. Neither option was good, but his gun was wavering. No matter how in shape you were, muscles would only do so much before they gave out on their own.

He spared a brief look at Sam and wanted to scream in frustration. His brother's color was bad and his whistling breathing was painful beyond words to hear. Worst of all, Sam was looking at him, begging him to help.

A strange warmth began spreading outward from his aching shoulder and down his arm. It felt almost like someone had placed a hand on his shoulder. The pain began to ease away and his hand steadied. His vision seemed to cloud slightly, though the scene in front of him still seemed crystal clear. That wasn't right…

* * *

Sam coughed, choked, struggled against the unrelenting hands holding him. He just couldn't get enough air in through his constricted throat no matter how hard he tried to pry at the man's fingers. He knew he wasn't too far from losing consciousness. He redoubled his efforts, trying to wrench himself away, but Peter twisted his arm back viciously. If he'd been able to cry out he would have, but he didn't have enough air.

Sam looked up at Dean, unsure of whether the gun aimed at him was wavering because of his own oxygen deprived mind or because of Dean's shaking muscles. Maybe he was seeing things, but something flickered behind Dean. The agonized, worried expression suddenly left Dean's face and smoothed into almost indifference. His hand holding the gun steadied. The arm that had been drooping, stopped, rose. The almost instantaneous transformation was startling to see. Peter saw it too and in his surprise he loosened his grip on Sam's throat, allowing him to take in a ragged, but fuller gasp of air.

"Hello, Peter," Dean said distantly. "I should have realized it was you."

Sam's eyes widened. Not Dean. Definitely not Dean. His brother didn't sound like that. Dean was a lot of things. But this cool, smooth-faced indifference to what was happening...

Indifferent was not a word Sam associated with his brother. Even when Dean didn't care about something, he didn't care about it _passionately_. If he didn't care about it, then no one should. If he did care… His brother was the only person he knew who could make the word 'whatever' mean almost anything from 'dumbass' to 'that's what you think' to 'I hate for you to be wrong about that your whole life.'

All of which meant that the flicker he'd seen hadn't been his failing vision. Dean wasn't home alone. Andre had come to find the rest of the violin section.

The gun was rock steady now and Sam realized too late what was happening. The violinist's stamina, plus Dean's skill with a gun…

Dean's aim changed only slightly and without warning he fired.

The bullet was so close to his face, Sam could practically hear it pass. He felt the impact through the hands holding him. And then the hands weren't holding him anymore. Suddenly freed, Sam fell forward onto the ground, coughing and gasping, but breathing freely despite his bruised throat.

He rolled onto his back, wincing at the pain it caused his shoulder. Sam didn't think it was dislocated, but it wasn't in good shape either.

Breathing heavily, he stayed where he was, watching as Dean walked to stand over Peter, stopping momentarily to pick up the gun Peter had lost earlier. He looked down at the dead man, his face still a mask of indifference, almost like a scientist studying a specimen.

"Peter, since you came to us, you have caused me nothing but problem after problem," he said dispassionately and for the first time Sam realized Dean had developed an accent. It was half something European, half Dean's own vague Midwestern. "You have much to learn."

Dean leaned down and grabbed Peter by the collar and dragged him toward the fresh grave they had been heading for earlier. Sam stumbled to his feet and followed, unsure of what to do. Dean continued dragging the body until it was lying completely on top of the small mound of fresh dirt. He dropped the gun onto Peter's chest and then moved to stand at the head of the grave.

"So many problems you cause me," Dean muttered. "I must teach you. You will learn to listen to your elders."

Sam saw something faintly flicker around his brother and then die away. Dean staggered, stumbling back, and sat down heavily on a headstone behind him.

The grave trembled slightly, the dirt moving like a living thing and so quickly that if he'd blinked he might have missed it, Sam saw Peter disappear, swallowed into the grave.

The night around them was suddenly silent and calm as if nothing had happened. Not even the grave looked disturbed and for a second Sam thought maybe he'd imagined it all. Then he coughed and it felt like his damaged throat was on fire.

"Sam?"

The voice was breathy and weak. Sam looked up just in time to see Dean pitch forward and land face first on the ground. Sam knelt beside him and, using his good arm, rolled him over. Dean groaned and Sam remembered the damaged ribs and collarbone. His eyes fluttered open, but Sam could see he was having trouble getting them to focus.

"You ok?"

"I hate being possessed," Dean muttered and promptly passed out.

* * *

_Since six chapters seem to be about my limit, guess that means tomorrow is the wrap-up._


	6. Chapter 6

**Squared Away**

Summary: A concert goes horribly wrong... Sam and Dean have to deal with a murderer and the man he killed.

_Here ya go… all finished. Thanks for the reviews and for sticking with this little bit of fluff._

Chapter Six

* * *

Sam hung up the phone and tucked it back in his jacket pocket. Emily would be off to the hospital now to get herself checked out. She reminded him of the girls he'd known for those few months when he'd been in the little high school band. Sweet, shy. A nice girl. He missed that sometimes. These days, the girls they met who didn't mind that they were leaving in a few days weren't what he'd call _nice_.

Sam sighed heavily and Dean looked over at him. "You all right?"

"Sure." He looked out the car window at the passing countryside as they drove away from the city. There wasn't anything to see though and he turned back.

"Shoulder bothering you?"

"Just strained. Give it a few days." His throat might take a little longer. Sam gingerly felt the bruising on his neck. It felt like someone had tried to dig their way through to his spine. It could have been worse though. It hurt to talk, but at least he was still around to talk.

Dean didn't ask anything else and turned his attention back to driving. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye. Dean hadn't said more than a few words since he'd come to in the cemetery. Sam had helped him to his feet and they had headed back to the car. Sam wasn't even sure how much of what had happened Dean could remember, but he'd seen Dean pause beside the fresh grave, staring down at it, an odd look on his face.

Dean's expression was closed now and he had the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip, not his normal post-hunt relaxed posture. More troubling, he hadn't turned on the radio. Sam saw a muscle tick in Dean's jaw and knew how tightly he had his teeth clenched.

"Dean?" Sam asked tentatively.

"Yeah," Dean said.

"You wanna talk about… anything?"

Dean let out a slow breath, as if trying to decompress, and then shook his head. "No."

"You remember any of what happened?" Sam asked. His voice was gravelly and it hurt to talk, but he needed to know.

"You mean do I remember putting a bullet between Pete's eyes?" Dean answered harshly. "Yeah."

"You were… awake?" Sam grimaced.

"Awake, aware, whatever you want to call it." Dean's face was carefully blank, but Sam could see the tension practically rolling off of his brother.

"It wasn't your fault," Sam said intently. He shifted so he could see Dean better in the dim dashboard light. "The ghost used you. It wanted Peter dead and it used you."

"I fired the gun, Sam," Dean answered, that muscle in his jaw flexing again.

"It's ok, man," Sam said simply. "It wasn't you. You didn't kill him."

* * *

Dean had killed him.

He'd killed Peter. A man. Not some creature or ghost. A man. It had been necessary, but it wasn't something he should feel ok about. He should feel like crap. He _needed_ to feel like crap.

Pete had been a monster and a murderer, but he'd been human.

It came up every once in a while. They'd come across a regular person who'd gone over to the dark side, or gotten themselves in too deep. The easiest thing would be to treat them like every other evil thing they came across, but Sam was always there to tell him it wasn't all right, that it wasn't the same. Sam was Dean's conscience, but your conscience couldn't lecture you when it was having the life strangled out of it.

Dean knew the truth. He had fired the gun. Not the ghost.

Andre had been there, somewhere in Dean's mind. Andre had been talking. It had been his presence that had steadied Dean's hand, eased his muscles, calmed his panicked mind. But Dean had taken the shot. A violinist didn't know how to aim, didn't know when to fire.

Andre hadn't cared about the hand crushing the life from his brother, but Dean had. He'd wanted Peter dead for what he was doing to Sam. Andre's presence had simply allayed Dean's fears about possibly missing Peter and hitting his brother instead.

When Dean had been composed and certain he could take the shot and save Sam, he'd fired. He probably could have winged Peter, turned him over to the cops, but he hadn't. He'd aimed to kill. Despite the calm exterior, in his head, he had heard Andre crow in vengeful exultation.

Dean wanted to feel like crap. He _ought_ to feel like crap. The problem was that he didn't. He felt like Andre had. Triumphant. Was that bad? He couldn't even tell anymore.

Whatever. It was self-defense. Peter had been hurting Sam and Sam was a part of him. Saving him was all that mattered.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, purposely working the tension out of them. His collarbone sent a shot of pain straight to his brain, but he ignored it. It would pass. It always did.

"Emily ok?" he asked.

"She's fine," Sam said, still watching him worriedly.

"You ever thought of botox?" Dean asked. "It would help with that frown thing you've got going on."

"I'll stop frowning when you do," Sam replied.

Dean realized he was scowling and ordered himself to stop. "Sorry. Only room for one moody one in this outfit."

Sam gave him a disbelieving look that said far more than words. He had to work not to frown again. He wasn't moody. He wasn't.

"So where to now?" Dean asked.

"I hear there are some werewolves out in Phoenix," Sam suggested.

"You been reading Hunter's Weekly again?"

Sam glared at him. "Maybe I use the laptop for more than a breakfast tray."

"Dude," Dean reached over and tapped Sam on the forehead. "Botox. Seriously."

Sam tried to keep a straight face, but finally gave up, a faint grin appearing as Dean had intended.

"One thing's for sure. I am never, ever, letting you drag me to another concert." Dean nodded for emphasis. "I don't care how many tickets some stuck-up suburban couple gives you."

"Symphony on the Square doesn't normally end with a murder," Sam said defensively.

An image of Peter lying dead on the ground flashed in front of Dean's eyes, but he forcibly ordered it away. "Show's what you know. I was ready to open fire just to clear out that concert."

"It's good for you," Sam said, "Teaches you patience." He scooted down in the seat so he could rest his head. Dean knew his brother's neck was hurting. Holding his big, brainy head up was probably straining the muscles. Dean decided he'd stop at the first motel he could find and let Sam get some rest.

"Patience," Dean eyed him. "I sat through over an _hour_ of classical music, Sam. If that's not patience I don't know what is."

"Yeah, Dean," Sam said sleepily. "The patience of Job. I'm _so_ impressed."

Dean grinned. "Oh no. I'm the one who's impressed."

Sam cracked open one eye and looked at him. "Why?"

"You have your first groupie." Dean wiped a fake tear away. "You're all grown up."

Sam's hand flashed out and smacked Dean's arm. "Shut up, man. She was nice."

"Course, she was," Dean replied. "No fun having obnoxious groupies."

Sam was silent for several minutes and Dean thought he'd fallen asleep until he shifted in the seat and opened one eye again. "You sure you're ok?"

"Yup," Dean nodded. Sam was with him. Sam was ok. That made him ok. "All squared away."

* * *

_Until next time…_


End file.
